


the golden age of something good

by wearealltalesintheend



Series: Queliot Week 2019 [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Queliot Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 23:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: Quentin has known Eliot for seven months when it occurs to him: he’s got no idea what Eliot’s major is.“I don’t know why you don’t just ask him,” Julia says over her paper cup, shrugging, “if you’re so curious, just ask him it’s not like it’s some state secret.”“I can’t, Jules, you know I can’t,” he cries, setting his own coffee down with a little more force than necessary. “It’s too late now, we’re way past this shit. It’s gonna be weird if I bring it up now.”*or, the one that Quentin is on a mission to figure out what Eliot's major is and gets a few other answers along the way.





	the golden age of something good

Quentin has known Eliot for seven months when it occurs to him: he’s got no idea what Eliot’s major is.

 

“I don’t know why you don’t just ask him,” Julia says over her paper cup, shrugging, “if you’re so curious, just ask him it’s not like it’s some state secret.”

 

“I can’t, Jules, you know I can’t,” he cries, setting his own coffee down with a little more force than necessary. “It’s too late now, we’re way past this shit. It’s gonna be weird if I bring it up now.”

 

“No,” she snorts, giving him an odd look, “it’s going to be weird if you start stalking him. Why do you care so much anyway?”

 

“I don’t– it’s just weird that I don’t know this about him,” Quentin replies, feeling weirdly like he has to defend himself. “He’s like, one of my best friends here. I should know this stuff.”

 

Julia frowns a little like she’s trying to figure something out but can’t quite get to the right answer. “If you say so,” she knocks back the rest of her latte and quickly gathers her books, getting to her feet. “I have to go. You going to be okay?”

 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, burying his head on his arms on the table. “I have Art History with Eliot now.”

 

“Great!” She says brightly, patting his head as she leaves. “You can ask him then.”

 

Muffled by his arm, Quentin groans.

 

*

 

“Do you ever wonder why we have dejavus?” Eliot asks him one day when they’re walking to Quentin’s Modern Lit class. His eyes are cast to the sky, watching the dark clouds gather. It might rain later. “Isn’t it strange we remember things happening twice?”

 

Quentin who has the vague recollection of once upon a time reading an article about it, says, “I dunno. There’s a scientific explanation, though.”

 

“There’s always a scientific explanation,” he huffs, lighting up a cigarette and in the grey weather, it’s a spark of yellow-red-orange. “And I politely refuse to know it. Love, life, dejavus– all science behind. But I prefer to think they mean something. Otherwise, why go through it at all?”

 

“Just because there’s an explanation doesn’t mean is not real,” Quentin frowns, holding his books closer to his chest, “doesn’t that make it  _ more  _ real? Why does it have to be a mystery to be magic?”

 

Eliot smiles, but it’s kind of sad, and Quentin doesn’t get what’s getting at, but this whole conversation feels as grey as the weather. He reaches a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear and Quentin feels thunderclouds somewhere on his ribcage. “Don’t ever change, Q.”

 

A lot later, when Quentin steps outside and rain soaks his clothes as he runs across campus, he wonders if he should have told Eliot knowing him is kinda like a dejavu.

 

*

 

Okay, look, he can figure this out on his own. 

 

Come on, how hard can it be?

 

Quentin knows things about Eliot, lots of things, alright? And Julia is right, it’s not as if it’s some state secret. They all go to the same University, for god’s sake. If he starts paying attention, he’ll figure it out.

 

“You should make a list,” Alice says, shuffling her papers in the way that means Quentin has been staring into space for way too long now and she’s getting annoyed. She takes the study group very seriously and no one else showing up is bad enough already.

 

“A list?” He asks, making a face that hopefully telegraphs what he thinks of her suggestion. 

 

“Yes, a list of things you know about his classes. It’ll be easier for you to piece a common denominator,” she shrugs, tilting her head to the side; her glasses slide a little and she adjusts them. “Why does it bother you so much anyway?”

 

“It doesn’t!” Quentin huffs, hitching his shoulders up and sliding down on his chair like Alice’s glasses. “I don’t know, it’s just weird that I don’t know that.”

 

Alice gives him a long, knowing look before smiling softly. “Sure, Q. Whatever you say,” and diving back to her book.

 

*

 

“Well, this was one particularly boring waste of my time,” Eliot muses, fishing a cigarette out of his pack as soon as they’re out in the quad and Quentin squints at the sun instead of him because it’s dimmer. “I’m not entirely convinced the Dean doesn’t mess with the requirements, slips in a few ridiculous class just for laughs.”

 

“That would mean he laughs,” Quentin says, grinning, “I don’t think his face can do that.”

 

“You do have a point,” he concedes, lips quirking up in a smile and his eyes are reflecting off the sun with that mischievous glint he only ever gets when he’s truly happy. Quentin wants to ask him then. The words are there, waiting at the tip of his tongue, but his mouth is dry and he can’t get them out, so Quentin shrugs and just enjoys the walk between buildings, listening to Eliot talk and wondering when did these few minutes become the best part of his day.

 

*

 

“Penny–”

 

“No, go away.”

 

“But you don’t even know–”

 

“Don’t care, go away.”

 

“But–”

 

“Goodbye.”

 

*

 

Okay, here’s how it started:

 

_ three months ago _

 

Quentin is studying in the library like your average overworked college student. He has books scattered around him and too-strong coffee in his water bottle. Finals are closing in and he’s half-convinced he might flunk half his classes.

 

Things aren’t pretty.

 

Then. Eliot stops in front of his table, perfectly composed as ever even though he must have his own finals. In the artificial low light, his hair glows like a halo and his eyes are warm honey. He kinda looks like an angel. Quentin can’t help staring. “This is the interruption you have been waiting for,” Eliot says and crosses his arms, waiting. 

 

“What?” is all Quentin can say as his mind scrambles to remember how to function as a human being when presented with the divine. 

 

Eliot’s eyes soften and he smiles indulgently. “You’ve been here for far too long, Q. We were getting worried.”

 

“Oh,” Quentin says and blinks. He gets to his feet and follows Eliot out the door and all the way down to the campus cafeteria. Did he always catch on fire when Eliot touched him?

 

It doesn’t feel like a new development.

 

Either way, Quentin thinks again  _ oh,  _ and realizes it’s too late. 

 

Midfall is way past the point of no return.

 

*

 

“Seriously?” Kady raises an eyebrow and makes a face like she’s not sure if she should be amused or annoyed. “Why’d you ask?”

 

“Just curious,” Quentin sighs, regretting asking already. Why he had thought this was a good idea anyway? Kady is as contrary as Penny but he had been stupid enough to think her delight on stirring the pot would win over her disinterest. 

 

“That doesn’t sound like  _ just curious,”  _ she smirks, taking her feet off the chair beside her and leaning forward from across the table. Well, she looks like she wants to stir the pot alright. “Come on, Coldwater. Why’d you wanna know what class Penny and I share with Eliot?”

 

They say hindsight is 20/20 but  _ god,  _ does Quentin want to take the last couple minutes back. “I’m just curious– we’re friends and I don’t even know what he’s majoring in,” he shrugs, ducking his head and wishing he could disappear. “Just thought you might know, that’s all.”

 

Kady pins him with one of her looks, the kind that feels like she’s staring into your head and seeing all the shit you did, tapping her pen on the table once, twice, then a third, final time. “Never asked,” she finally says, leaning back on her chair again. “But Penny and I have Computer Design with him.”

 

Quentin smiles awkwardly at her and pretends he’s not hiding behind his hair. “Thanks.”

 

*

 

_ five months ago _

 

“Thanks,” he murmurs softly as Margo lets him in, clutching his book nervously. He’s been here before, obviously, but never like this. Never when it’s this messy and with as many empty bottles littering the ground. Never when Eliot is a lump under the blankets and Margo is wringing her hands with red-rimmed eyes. “Has he eaten anything today?”

 

“A muffin but I’m not sure he held it down,” she sniffs, and they both pretend not to hear. Margo smoothes out her skirt, subtly wipes her cheeks, then exhales. Back to Queen of the Campus. “I’m going to go get some fucking coffee. Will you be okay?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll, uh. I’ll watch him, don’t worry.”

 

Margo points a finger to his chest and her nail is sharp-ended where it pokes his shirt. Her voice is all steel. “You better not make it worse while I’m gone, Coldwater, or I’ll fuck you up.”

 

Quentin wholeheartedly believes her and swallows thickly when the door closes behind her. He doesn’t wanna screw up either, but, well. His history isn’t exactly crystal clear.

 

Still, he approaches the bed, sitting on the chair Margo had just vacated. From here, all he can see is the top of Eliot’s head, a mop of dark hair that he’s never seen this tangled. He reaches a hesitant hand to rest on top of the lump. “Hey, El,” he whispers, feeling Eliot stir under his palm. “It’s me, it’s hm, Quentin. Quentin Coldwater, in case you know any other Quentin’s.”

 

He waits patiently in silence to see if Eliot wants to acknowledge his presence, but leaves his hand there, in silent support. In  _ you’re not alone.  _ In  _ I’m here.  _

 

“As if,” Eliot finally mutters, shifting in his blankets so he’s facing Quentin and Quentin takes his hand back and– and  _ god,  _ he looks tired. Exhausted. With bags underneath his eyes and an unhappy frown on his lips. It’s the light that Quentin misses the most. “It’s very rude to talk of someone as if they’re not in the room, you know.”

 

“Sorry. I,” Quentin doesn’t really have a plan beyond getting proof of life and he might have been exaggerating when he told Margo he would be okay alone. When has Quentin ever learned to be okay in his life ever, really? “And I’m uh, sorry about Mike.”

 

The funeral had been yesterday, the whole campus talked about it. Well, not the  _ whole  _ campus, but the Linguistics Department. It feels shitty and cheap to say that but Quentin doesn’t know what else to say, he’s never really known Mike and never made an opinion on him, even after he and Eliot made it to the one month mark.

 

Quentin’s sorry, and these are all the words he has to offer, really. Shitty and cheap as they are. 

 

“Yes, his death was untimely and unexpected, I’ve been told,” Eliot says in a flat voice that sends a chill down Quentin’s spine. He’s never heard Eliot speak without any inflection at all. “Car crashes are like that, though.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, and Eliot huffs, rolling his eyes. “I, uh, brought you this.”

 

The book is worn from all the times Quentin has read it over the years, but Eliot takes it from him with careful hands, holding it like a prize, a treasure. “Fillory and Further?”

 

“Yeah, it helped me. When it was bad. So I thought,” Quentin shrugs, starting to doubt if this was such a good idea– Eliot probably thinks it’s stupid, why would Quentin bring him a stupid kid’s book–

 

“It’s not alcohol, but it will do,” Eliot says haughtily, but when he places the book back on Quentin’s lap, it’s with cautious hands, and his eyes are soft and gentle. “Thank you.”

 

“It’s– you’re welcome,” he smiles quietly, understanding all the hidden words behind the gesture. The  _ thank you for not asking if I’m okay  _ is the loudest of them all, though.

 

“Well, then, what are you waiting for?”

 

Quentin’s brow furrows. “Sorry, uh, what?”

 

Now, Eliot’s voice sounds a tiny bit more like Eliot’s voice and when he speaks again, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Read for me,” he says in a non-question, but Quentin doesn’t mind. He would do anything for that smile, really.

 

So Quentin settles more comfortably in his chair and starts reading.

 

*

 

Quentin had been trying not to bring this up with Margo because honestly, he’s still a little terrified of Margo and also because she would smell his bullshit miles away and she wouldn’t be as nice about it as Julia or Alice.

 

Hence, when he spots her on their shared Greek history class and she narrows her eyes at him, tilting her head pointedly at the empty chair beside her, he nearly bolts out the door.

 

“Hey, Margo,” he offers meekly, sliding into the seat and scooting as far from her as he can. It’s no use though, she drags his chair closer until it’s glued to hers. “Hm. What’s up?”

 

“Don’t even try it, Coldwater,” she waves him off, setting her pencil down way too forcefully for it not to be a threat. “Heard you were asking around about Eliot. Why.”

 

“I, uh, I wasn’t,” her glare shuts down his quickly and Quentin clears his throat, starts again. “I realized, recently, that I don’t really know what Eliot is studying here and I figured I should know that because we’re friends and that’s– that’s the kind of thing you know about your friends, right? So, you know, I was just asking, about hm, about that.”

 

Margo raises both her eyebrows at that and gives him an incredulously unimpressed look. “Seriously.”

 

He nods sheepishly. “I feel bad about not knowing.”

 

“You’ve got to be shitting me– why don’t you just ask him, dumbass?”

 

“He says it’s too late now,” Julia pipes in from the row behind them, leaning forward over her desk. “He’s embarrassed. What will Eliot think?” She asks, faux-scandalized.

 

“Since when do you take this class?” Quentin whirls on his seat, awkwardly folding his legs to avoid accidentally kick Margo.

 

“I don’t,” she shrugs unrepentant, “but I had a free period and Alice said Margo was looking for you. This seemed more fun than sitting on Starbucks.”

 

“You are a horrible friend, I hope you know that,” he glares before turning back to Margo. “It  _ is  _ too late, though.”

 

“There’s not a goddamn deadline, Q,” Margo rolls her eyes, pushing his chair away with her boot. “And you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

 

He is. He absolutely is, he knows. But it’s too late now for this too, he has to commit.

 

“Look, I just don’t want to be a bad friend and give the impression I don’t care about him, cause I do, so. Do you have any new information for me?” Quentin asks her, giving his best to look hopeful and pitiful at the same time.

 

It must work because Margo huffs irritated. “I swear to fucking god,” she mutters, then sighs long-suffering. “Eliot and I have Acting together, alright? There. Happy, Nancy Drew?”

 

Quentin makes a face. Something else is more pressing, though. “Please, don’t tell Eliot.”

 

Instead of answering him, Margo shares a tired look with Julia. “It’s worse than a soap opera, isn’t it?”

 

“Yup. How’s it looking on your end?”

 

“Equally sad.”

 

That’s. Nope. No. Quentin’s got enough to deal without wondering what the hell these two are talking about.

 

Instead, he opens his textbook and pretends to read and counts every second before class starts.

 

*

 

Or maybe, it starts like this:

 

_ seven months ago _

 

Quentin walks into his first class fifteen minutes before it starts because he wants to compensate for being late to Orientation and because Julia had banged on his door until he rolled out of bed. 

 

The classroom is fairly empty, with only a few students scattered around and Quentin stops at the door, trying to decide where to seat. Is he a front row kind of student? He doesn’t think so, but it’s college, so maybe he could be? Or should he go for the zone in the middle? 

 

“Did you perhaps wander in the wrong class and that’s why you’re looking like a lost little lamb?”

 

The voice startles him but only for a second. Eliot is a familiar face and Quentin is terribly glad for the company. “No, this is, uh. I’m in this class. I’m just,” he half shrugs, shuffling the books on his hands, “what about you?”

 

“I’m taking this class too,” Eliot says, wrapping an arm around Quentin’s shoulders and steering him to the back row while they talk. “It seemed easy credit.”

 

Quentin’s heart is racing as he sits beside Eliot and pretends he’s not to be ridiculously relieved. He’s not sure why Eliot– beautiful, cool, breathtaking Eliot– is being so nice to him, but strangely, it doesn’t feel half as strange.

 

If anything, it fits.

 

The lecture starts and Eliot doesn’t even pretend to pay attention, doodling at the margins of his notebook. Quentin smiles and doesn’t feel nervous anymore.

 

*

 

“Oh, Margo said you might ask me that,” Fen says, smiling brightly as they look for a table in the cafeteria. The place is packed with students, but really, that’s on them for taking so long to get here. “And she also told me to tell you to grow a pair of tits and ask him yourself.”

 

Quentin sighs. He doesn’t know what he expected. “That sounds like Margo,” he grimaces, walking around a group of sophomores blocking the way. A few rows over, he can see an empty table. They quicken their pace. “But uh. Seriously. What class do you have with him?”

 

Fen smiles even brighter. “Pottery class,” she tells him proudly, and Quentin once again wonders why on earth a pre-Law student is taking a pottery class but lets it slide without further questioning. “It’s not the same as knife-making but you know. Close enough.”

 

Okay. That’s slightly worrying but not really helpful. 

 

“I’d tell you, I would,” Fen apologizes, looking up sheepishly, “but Margo and Julia said you need to figure out on your own.”

 

“Of course they did,” Quentin sighs, setting his tray down on the blessedly empty table. God forbid they make things easier for him. “Thanks anyway.”

 

“No problem,” she grins, and dives into her muffin.

 

*

 

Either way, this is how it ends: 

 

Look. Okay. Quentin’s not stupid, alright. He knows he’s focusing on this whole major thing because it’s easier than dealing with the fact he went ahead and did the stupid, stupid thing and got a crush on his best friend.

 

It’s just like him really. He did the same thing in high school, then briefly here with Alice, and now, well. He’d say it was only a matter of time, but– this feels different, somehow.

 

Julia would say it’s because he grew up since high school, or maybe because  _ crush  _ stopped being accurate a long time ago. 

 

So, you know. If he’s busy figuring out this, he’s got no time to wallow on how hopeless his crush is. That’s just how he deals with things, he dives headlong into something else and ignores what he’s trying to forget.

 

But the problem is, the things we try to bury, sometimes find a way to coming up for air.

 

“I don’t know, El,” he says, sprawled on top of the multitude of pillows Eliot owns on the floor of Eliot’s room, Art History book lying on his chest. “Are you sure throwing a party a week before finals is a good idea?”

 

“It’s an excellent idea,” Eliot shoots back, looking sort of upside down at Quentin from where he’s lounging on his bed. “People need to relax before selling their souls to pass their classes.”

 

Quentin snorts, knowing full well his complaints are more out of principle than any real opposition and he’ll be here tonight anyway. Above him, Eliot smiles with the same knowledge. 

 

As he looks away, careful not to let himself stare, his eyes fall on a notebook that had been knocked to the floor a while ago but they had been too lazy to move to pick it up.

 

It’d fallen open and now Quentin can see there’s some sort of drawing on the page, but can’t quite make out from where he is.

 

“Hey, you draw?” He asks, straining to reach the notebook without having to get up.

 

“Obviously,” Eliot looks at him amusedly like it’s the most obvious thing world and why is Quentin asking it? 

 

“Oh,” Quentin says distractedly. The drawing is  _ beautiful  _ and he thinks he recognizes this place– the trees, the towers, the castle– “ _ Oh.  _ It’s Castle Whitespire.”

 

That picks Eliot’s interest and he sits up, plucking the notebook from his hands in one smooth motion. “It is indeed. I may have finished that book on my own.”

 

A smile spreads on Quentin’s face. “You liked it, didn’t you?”

 

“Maybe,” he admits begrudgingly, flipping it closed. “Anyway, as I was saying, we need supplies for the party tonight.”

 

But Quentin is not quite ready to move on from the conversation, not when he’s discovering an entirely new thing about Eliot he seems to have missed in plain sight. “It’s really good, I mean, El, it’s amazing– it’s just, it’s beautiful,” he glances up, catching the tail end of something new flashing behind Eliot’s eyes. “Can I see the rest?”

 

Eliot considers it for a long moment, studying Quentin’s face and Quentin tries not to fidget under his gaze. “Very well. You may,” he allows, handing him the notebook back.

 

“Thanks,” Quentin smiles, making sure to be extra careful when flipping the pages. There are a few drawings of places around campus– the Woof fountain, the tree line in front of the History building, the view from his bedroom window– but it’s mostly filled with people– Margo smiling one of her rare, gentles smiles, Alice studying in the library, Julia laughing, Penny and Kady holding hands, Fen showing her knives to Josh, all of them in the cafeteria, even  _ Todd  _ featured in a few of the group shots. And Quentin. There’s a lot of Quentin in there and he wonders how could he have missed it? All the time Eliot must have spent looking at Quentin to draw these– as much as Quentin spent looking at Eliot, at least.

 

And that’s. 

 

Does that mean–

 

_ Oh. _

 

Quentin looks up in surprise, daring to hope. “Eliot, I–”

 

“Don’t. It’s quite alright,” Eliot interrupts him, lifting a hand for silence, “I caught feelings, you don’t share those feelings– it happens. There, the cat’s out of the bag, now let’s move on with this conversation. The party–”

 

“No.”

 

The word is out his lips before his mind is finished processing all that’s going on and Eliot flinches as if it physically hurt him, and Quentin backtracks furiously. “I mean, let’s not. I’d like to stay on this topic a little longer. Can we, can we talk about this? Because I have things to say too, you know.”

 

Eliot sighs, resigned, and gestures for him to go on.

 

If anyone had asked Quentin how he imagined he would feel when, hypothetically speaking, of course, confessing his feelings, he would have said  _ nervous as hell.  _ Like puking, probably. But now that he’s here, Quentin feels excited. Happy, giddy, even. Like there’s bubbles on his chest, light and iridescent, and his heart is racing in the best possible way.

 

Quentin bites his lip, not really succeeding in hiding his grin.

 

“You never asked,” he says, moving from the floor to sit beside Eliot on the bed, notebook placed carefully on the bedside table, “but I caught feelings too. So many feelings. All the feelings. Terminal case, really.”

 

“Is that so?” Eliot drawls and his smiling again, all traces of his sad resignation gone from sight, and Quentin would truly do anything to keep it that way. 

 

“Yeah,” he whispers, breathless as Eliot leans in, closer and closer, and he reaches to cup his face, marvels at how soft his hair feels, and then–

 

And then they’re kissing and Quentin is lost to the world.

 

There’s nothing more important than this.

 

*

 

“Hey, I have a question?” Quentin asks, nearly having to shout to be heard over the music, and Eliot has to lean closer to answer. What a sacrifice.

 

“Yeah? Hold on,” he wraps his hand around Quentin’s wrists, leading them through the crowd to the slightly less packed but thankfully quieter hallway outside. “Go ahead.”

 

“What’s your major?” Quentin blurts out, following his question with the rest of his beer to drown his shame.

 

“Seriously?” Eliot laughs. He laughs, and he has to brace himself against the wall to stay upright. Quentin waits patiently, stealing his beer and knocking it back too. “Sorry. It’s just. How long have you known me? Okay, sorry, I will not tease you. Too much. It’s Arts, Q. Arts major with a minor in Theater. But I do take philosophy classes, so I might do something with that.”

 

Well, that explains Quentin’s absolute inability of figuring it out. 

 

“I don’t have a follow up to that,” he tells him, shrugging and giving their cups to a passing freshman. “So I’m just going to kiss you now, okay?”

 

Eliot laughs again, but it’s more breathless, open, and draws Quentin closer. “That’s the best idea you had all night, if you ask me.”

 

Quentin kisses him, tasting beer and laughter and the words dying to be spoken.

 

His freshman year is almost over and what says college more than making out in the dorm’s halls, anyway? And falling in love, that is.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> okay if you liked it, you can always talk to me or send me a prompt on [my tumblr.](https://rad-hoodd.tumblr.com)


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